The Thief by Aine Crabtree

said...Tailor?”
    His face lit up. “Awesome! You’re in our
class!”
    “ Oh, ok,” I said. I couldn’t
begin to share in his enthusiasm without context, but it was nice
to talk to someone upbeat for a change. “You’re really in tenth
grade?” I blurted, and immediately regretted it.
    His face fell for an instant, but he
recovered almost immediately. “Skipped a grade,” he explained
briefly. “Come on, English is upstairs. You’ll love it, Tailor’s
got all the charm of a wet cat. Don’t tell him I said that.”
    “ Oh. Alright,” I said. I
started to follow and then paused, looking back at Camille. “Are
you coming?”
    She looked at me, her sideways folder,
closed it with a little huff and followed.
    Mac led us up the stairs
onto the second floor landing, overlooking the atrium. I thought of
the boy from earlier. He had been looking at something up here. I
blushed slightly, glancing down at where he’d stood. Now, if he had found me wandering
the halls...
    Oh, let’s be realistic. I’d have been too
flustered to even say a word, much less anything intelligent.
    “ Over here,” Mac said,
leading us down the hall to the right, to a door labeled 2-B.
“Found the new students!” he announced as he opened it. I was
acutely aware that over a dozen pairs of eyes were staring at me.
My pulse hammered. Transmute, transmute,
transmute , I repeated in my head like a
mantra.
    Inside, the teacher paused mid-lecture, at
the board with chalk in hand. He was thin and bookish, but
handsome, though he wore a pinched sort of frown as he turned to
us. Then his eyes widened in a moment of real shock as he saw me.
It was just like when I’d surprised Bea on the phone - he was
afraid of me.
    Mac also appeared confused by Mr. Tailor’s
reaction. “See?” he prompted. “Jul Graham and...um...” he looked at
Camille. “You know, I just realized I missed your name.”
    She rolled her eyes.
    Mr. Tailor seemed to recover somewhat, but I
still didn’t like the way he was looking at me. Like I was liable
to end the world at the slightest provocation. “Graham,” he
murmured. “Yes, of course. Go have a seat. In the back.”
    The back of the room? I clutched my bag to
myself and went down the aisle. Was that another way of saying he
wanted me as far away from him as possible?
    Was this kind of reaction going to become a
trend around here? What had I done? I slid into my chair, convinced
that the butterflies in my stomach had mutated into parasites of
the nervous system. At least I was still breathing ok. Small
blessings.
    Tailor turned and adjusted his glasses,
focusing on Mac. “And why exactly were you wandering around in the
hall, Dupree? What excuse did you cook up so that you could play
white knight?”
    Muffled chuckles from other students around
the room. A flush crept up Mac’s neck. “Uh...that is...”
    “ Oh just sit down already,”
Tailor groaned. “I don’t have time for this.”
    Mac slid meekly into a desk near the front,
next to a tall boy with dark hair that covered his eyes, who
slipped him a piece of paper when Tailor turned to Camille.
    She was still standing just inside the door,
shoulderbag slung across her back, hands stuffed into the front
pocket of her hoodie. She met his scrutiny with a bland expression
and his eyes narrowed.
    “ That makes you Teague,” he
said with distaste.
    She shrugged.
    “ Do you speak?” Tailor
asked.
    “ Sometimes.”
    “ What sort of accent is
that?”
    “ Mine.”
    Someone in the room snickered, but a quick
glare from Tailor silenced the room. “I love clever students,” he
said dryly. “They get to sit up front where I can keep a nice,
close eye on them.” He pointed to an empty desk.
    That was the first hint of discomfort I saw
from her, as she slid into the desk, metal bracer clinking against
the plastic. Did she not like being up front?
    “ Alright, unless any more
mid-semester students are joining our class today – ” Mr. Tailor
picked up